


hotel walls can learn to talk

by zauberer_sirin



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Age Difference, Angst, Coulson's intimacy issues, Developing Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fluff, Future Fic, Happy, Hotel Sex, Lots and lots of sex, Older Man/Younger Woman, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Sex as Communication, Skye being the best thing ever, Smut, Working Out My Feelings Through Fic, mention of Coulson/Audrey
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-26
Updated: 2014-03-26
Packaged: 2018-01-17 02:20:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1370326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zauberer_sirin/pseuds/zauberer_sirin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>"But I really want to do this," Skye says, smiling shyly.</i> </p><p>Or, Five times Coulson and Skye had sex in a hotel room, and one they didn't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	hotel walls can learn to talk

**1**

Here they are, stretched out on a hotel bed.

"So we are doing this, uh?" she says, looking at the ceiling. They are both looking at the ceiling, not at each other just yet. Not daring, she thinks.

"Maybe we shouldn't."

She hears Coulson's voice, but like he is far away. Which is weird because she's very aware – painfully so – of how close to her he lies over the covers.

It's been less than 48 hours since she kissed him on a strange impulse; the layover was actually planned days before that, but Skye takes it as a great coincidence. They need a place to talk this out without the extra pressure of being inside the Bus, with no privacy, with the others always around.

It's been slightly over 24 hours since what Skye thought was going to be an incredibly awkward apology on her behalf turned into something staggeringly different; Coulson brushing his fingertips over the nape of her neck and kissing that spot before Skye had time to miss the warmth of his hand. He had shaken his head, _No. Skye, we can't pretend there isn't something here_ and he had sounded so reasonable about it Skye had no choice but to nod dumbly. Then he had kissed her, in a way that implied he wanted to continue that particular conversation elsewhere. She still shudders at the way he said her name that time.

"What?" she asks, distracted by the proximity of his face, the utter bizarreness of lying on the same bed with Agent Phil Coulson.

“I said maybe we shouldn't do this.”

He sounds doubtful, something unusual for him. She actually came to his room with him, riding the elevator and walking the hallway together, didn't even care if anyone else in the team noticed that. She and Coulson were the last ones in the hotel bar, anyway.

“We said we'd do this,” she reminds him. “To see what – what's going on with us.”

“We said that. It doesn't mean it's a good idea, Skye.”

His hand comes to her cheek, thumb stroking gently. It's not a lover-like gesture at all, she remembers a similar one, meant to comfort her when she was crying, and Skye thinks he might be already regretting the whole business.

What's there left for her, but honesty?

"But I really want to do this," she says, smiling shyly.

That seems to be enough for Coulson. He stretches his body across the bed and kisses Skye for a moment, almost experimentally, no tongue, but a lots of intent. He pulls away almost immediately, tilting his head and waiting for her reaction.

Skye is done talking; she's actually done thinking about this, turning the matter in her mind, trying to find an explanation and wondering if this, whatever there's between her and Coulson now, this attraction, is a side effect of sharing such a traumatic experience, of the secrets they keep, the things only the other can understand. Skye is done asking herself if this is new, and maybe illusory, or if there has always been something there, from the beginning.

Her reaction is she kisses him back.

And of course it's weird. It was weird the first time she kissed him, it was weird enough _wanting_ to kiss him, nevermind the actual event of it. It's weird, but then he opens his mouth and Skye can press her tongue against his and _weird_ changes into something else, more complicated, sure, but something that makes Skye grab the lapel of Coulson's jacket, feeling a bit dizzy.

The way he kisses her, with that much passion, is both startling and really actually very _nice_.

Soon they discover they have been both angling their bodies on the bed, and suddenly there's no space between then. Her fingers are playing with his tie. And she'd like to spend a great, great deal of time kissing him like this. But she has more pressing matters at hand.

Coulson gives her an inquiring look as she starts unbuttoning her jeans. She nods, lets him know it's okay and in a moment he's helping her out of these damned clothes. Skye can see him swallow back lust as his eyes dart over her legs. That's a good look on him, she decides.

She frees herself from her purple blouse next, wonders for an ugly moment if her scars are going to put him off. But Coulson smiles appreciatively, and his fingers dart over exposed skin, like he wants to touch it but he can't bring himself to yet. Instead he dips his head and once again his mouth is pressed against her body. He sucks on her neck, the spot right below her ear and Skye makes small, pleased noises at that. He thumbs her ribcage, fingers tracing the line where the band of her bra meets her skin.

It all goes a bit too fast after that; his jacket and tie are gone in a moment and apparently that's all they need because he's pressing her against the bed again, working his waist between her legs.

“Do we need...?” he starts asking.

Blissfully Skye doesn't need him to finish.

“What? No. I'm - I'm on the pill.”

Which, in all horrible fairness, Skye knows he knows; that's the least appealing thing about working for a dangerous shadow organization, the fact that Skye was informed up front that it would be a good idea for field agents to be on birth control (she didn't ask, whatever, anyway, she was already on it way before SHIELD appeared in the picture, she's not an idiot), not to mention the fact that both Ward and Simmons knew about it, as her S.O. and her doctor. Of course her boss knows all about it, too, but it's not like she knew, coming on board, that she'd end up in a hotel bed with her legs wrapped around said boss. And yes, it is slightly creepy that Coulson knows about her chosen brand of contraceptives because it's on her file, but it's not like he asked for it, it's just his job description.

“Come here,” she says, bringing his face to her mouth. That's better. No creepiness there.

He presses his body against her, lets her run her hands up and down his arms. Not without some suspicion on his part she convinces him – wordlessly, fists into his collar – to let her take his shirt off, can't convince him to lose the undershirt, though, for some reason and she's content to slip her hands under it, warm against his stomach, his sides, along his back. Sure, Coulson might not be what she is used to, but she wouldn't be doing this if she didn't like his body. He may be older-ish but he's a freaking SHIELD agent, Skye is pretty sure he's much fitter than she is.

They take care of his pants together; he lets her unbuckle his belt before he himself pushes his clothes down below his knees. It looks like Coulson is going to wait a moment but then he doesn't and that surprises Skye, she meets him with a hitched breath.

Having sex with someone for the first time is always kind of messy. Normally, in Skye's case, she would have been either drinking or hacking with the guy prior to this. This is different (it has to be). He's now inside her and it's almost too weird, this is Coulson, he's at the same time too familiar for this, and absolutely unknowable. But then he moves, slowly, letting her get used to it, and it's still weird but not the bad kind of weird.

And it's – well, it's a first time. That doesn't mean it's bad, it's not. Coulson seems good at this, managing both Skye's nervousness and his own preoccupations well. There are some advantages to age, she thinks, amused by his look of concentration, and Coulson obviously knows what he's doing. She relaxes a bit when she realizes that (and it's also a good thing, she relaxes _around_ him) and lets him find a pace for both of them, even if that pace falls somewhere between cautious and desperate. It's good, it's actually pretty good.

He goes slow, with just that bite of urgency that makes it easy for the heat to pool low on Skye's stomach. She can feel it rising quietly, but she can also feel Coulson thrusting with more precision and intent now.

“Wait for me,” she pleads. She wants them to come together, she feels like it should mean something. It's a first time, it can't be perfect or mindblowing or whatever, but it's Coulson, she wants it to be meaningful.

She guides both their hands between their bodies. She doesn't break eye contact all through it. She gets them to climax more or less at the same time, which she considers a triumph under the circumstances, even if her own orgasm feels shallower than her desire for him has been. That's usually the case, though, so she doesn't consider it any indication of her true feelings. A good indicator, though, could be how welcome she considers his weight on her, even as he pulls out, how nice it is to hold him, how nice that he lets himself be held.

He rolls over to his side and Skye misses it, the weight.

Coulson looks mildly ridiculous, spent, with his pants around his ankles. But she also thinks he looks kind of hot, panting and closing his eyes for a moment, trying to catch his breath. Skye places one hand on his chest.

“You okay?”

He nods, but says nothing, which is not super good news, as far she knows. She doesn't really like Coulson when he's not speaking to her. 

He gathers his clothes and walks into the bathroom. Skye hears the tap water running for a while.

Coulson emerges a couple of minutes later, underwear and t-shirt – Skye thinks it's a bizarre image, though not unwelcome, a bizarre night all in all. He draws a tired breath before he starts undoing the nearest side of the bed. Skye sits cross-legged, still over the covers.

“Do you want me to stay or...?” she asks.

He has his frowny face on again. “Why wouldn't I want you to stay? Do you want to leave?”

“No. But... I don't know how you do this.”

“ _I_ don't know how I do this.”

He climbs into bed. For a moment Skye thinks that's it, her clue to – do exactly what? But then he reaches his hands to her face, cupping her cheek in his warm palm. This time is more lover-like, she thinks, if only because, right now, they – technically – are lovers.

“So now what?” she asks. Doesn't really mean to push the question, but she had to.

“Now I'm tired. I'd like to go to bed.”

“Okay.” He stares at her, patient and gentle. Skye gets it. “I'd like that, actually.”

They start the careful negotiation of sharing a bed. Somehow a lot more awkward than having sex for the first time. She veers towards the edge of the bed, hugging the end of the pillow under her cheek, leaving him a lot of room because she guesses he needs it. She's not expecting Coulson's arm upon her waist but there it is. The pressure is unnerving and pleasurable at the same time.

Minutes pass and of course Skye can't fall asleep. How could she? The enormity of what they've just done hits her, and for the first time she has her doubts. Coulson is something so important in her life, she shouldn't have been so quick to try something that might fuck that up.

She feels him stir behind her, letting out a tiny, frustrated sound.

“Skye.”

“Yes?”

“ _Sleep_.”

But he's not annoyed.

And Skye can tell because he runs a hand through her hair and tucks it behind her ear and something that simple is enough, her body relaxes without her permission, expanding like her ribcage when breathing and meeting Coulson's body in the process, in all the right, warm places. And then it's fine, it's better than fine, she thinks, before falling asleep.

He was wrong – this was definitely not a bad idea.

 

 

**2**

He can feel Skye ready to go again.

This right here, this is one of the reasons why he said they shouldn't do this, in the first place. Not that she'd listened, not that he'd himself listened (which was a lot more worrying). 

They've already had sex tonight but Skye is alert and clear-eyed, and she's been kissing him for some minutes now. Her kiss (and it is _her_ kiss) deepens, her hands fumble against his chest again, ready to pull him down to her body again. They've only done this a handful of times but he's got very good at reading her. Anyway she always wants more, of course. Too much of _more_ she asks, if you want Coulson's opinion.

Coulson's opinion is that this situation is utterly pathetic.

"Wait a moment," he tells her.

"Sure. What? _Why_?"

He frowns, his eyes flicking a moment to his underwear, then the space between his body and Skye's. "I'm trying not to use words like refractory period here. But it is what it is."

"Oh. _Oh_. Okay, no problem."

Her offhand dismissal of the matter annoys him.

Truth is: he hasn't been with someone this young since he himself was a young man, there are certain impossibilities he had warned Skye about before they started this (which Skye had refused to consider seriously and here they are now). Truth is: Coulson doesn't like girls – he likes women, older, confident, assertive, women who know who they are and what they want, women with clear expectations about him and comfortable with whatever he wants to offer. The last couple of decades, that's how things have been for Coulson – not this, not this girl, and the messy, consuming thing between them. A lifetime of knowing exactly how much (how little) he can commit himself to others has left Coulson wary of lovers who demand too much. Skye's _more more more_ nonsense is impractical. 

He thinks, absently, about the last woman he was involved with. There still is enough regret about how things ended (or in this case, how they _didn't_ ) to distort some of facts but the overall impression remains: he had loved her and it had been _perfect_ , the perfect situation, the perfect level of comfort between two very independent people. Coulson thinks about the way she used to laugh over dessert and wine when she tried to explain to him the difference between `glissando´and `portamento´ once again, a private joke between them. He misses that laughter. He had felt safe knowing she wouldn't push him, she would accept this version of himself Coulson was when he was with her, so different, he suspected, from the real one. They were in sync. They were a perfect fit.

The problem with Skye is that he doesn't know where he stands, most of the time. He feels slightly ridiculous, pressed against her young and lithe body, pressed against her hunger for him, so earnest and unpredictable, so greedy. The problem with Skye is that he hadn't planned on jumping into this – Coulson doesn't really enjoy jumping into things head first, without knowing what he wants from the situation. Call it his SHIELD training kicking in but he considers that course of action dangerous.

He doesn't know what he wants from this.

He looks up at Skye.

“I told you this could happen. You're used to–“ he trails off, not really wanting to inquire about Skye's sexual past and expectations. “You're used to something else.”

She smirks.

"Don't tell me the legendary A.C. is feeling insecure about his prowess."

She kisses him. 

He doesn't kiss back.

"No, wait, don't tell me that's it,” she sits up, alarmed. “You can't be serious."

"Well, Skye, this is the sort of problem you face when you decide to get involved with someone twice your age."

He sounds both snippy and patronizing, like he was lecturing her. Like the decision had only been hers.

“You _are_ serious.”

He quirks a sardonic little smile. “Do I look like I'm joking?”

She takes his hand in both hers, a gesture that feels childish, too impassioned.

"Listen, I know I give the worst pep talks ever, and this is so not something I imagined I had to tell you but: you are great, _really_ great.” She pauses, like she wants him to take it in, really take it in. Her voice is even more ardent when she continues, but somehow softer: “I'm crazy about you, you know that, and I have the opposite of complaints in this department. Okay, so I don't have as much experience as you do, probably, and granted most boys I dated wanted to have sex in the backseat of their trucks after some concert but... you don't have to worry about this. Like, _at all_."

Coulson snorts softly. "You're very sweet."

"No. I'm very, very honest."

He's not being insecure, not exactly anyway; it might sound smug but he doesn't think he's ever been worried about his abilities in bed. What concerns him here if how mismatched he and Skye are. And he doesn't think he is too old for this, he doesn't fall into that trap; he might be too old for this _with her_ , though.

“Thank you,” he tells her, not putting much effort in it sounding true.

But of course Skye hasn't finished yet.

“You're in amazing shape. And I thoroughly enjoy everything you do.” He just stares at her. Another problem: they are both too stubborn to back down. He can feel Skye getting impatient beyond her endurance. “Look, Coulson, _stop it_ , this is not something you have to worry about. Ever.”

She kisses him.

This time he finds himself reciprocating.

She guides his hand between her legs, without breaking the kiss.

“Feel that?” she says, very serious. He does, not just the heat between their bodies, not just her arousal, but also her heartbeat against his chest, stuttering as her breathing becomes more labored. She is, of course, not just talking about sex. But sex is a good metaphor – it's just that Coulson has never trusted the language to be precise enough.

He leaves his hand there, just a hint of pressure.

“Yes,” he concedes. He feels it. It'd be a lot easier if he didn't. But he's a fair man, he will give her this win.

Skye smiles, catches his lip between her teeth and makes a satisfied, falling sound.

Coulson's fingers drift further down and Skye gasps as he slides one into her.

“Thoroughly enjoy everything I do? Every–thing? Skye?”

Her eyes widen.

“Oh god, you're a tease. I knew it. I _always_ knew it. I'm telling everybody, you know.”

He actually feels emboldened by her lack of shame – not about the sex, Coulson is not embarrassed by that, but about her feelings for him. He feels the tension in his chest slip away.

“What makes you think you'll be able _to talk_ , after I'm finished with you?” he says in her ear, low and rough, and yet clearly self-aware, with humor.

It makes her blush against her will – he can tell, and she's so ridiculously young in his arms.

“Dirty talk with the boss man,” she teases back, pushes back, recovering soon, matching him, and looking delighted at this turn of events. “I can roll with that.”

She pushes her hips down to get more of his fingers inside her.

“But I told you,” she whispers against his cheek, sweet and comforting. “You have nothing to prove.”

And God she is relentless. Coulson crooks his fingers just to silence that line of thought in her.

She groans as she bucks her hips.

It's easy to get her there, and it is so quick – so much that Coulson feels a bit like an idiot for questioning Skye's needs and desires. He'll do her the justice of not assuming he knows better about what she wants.

He doesn't stop when she comes, thrusting his fingers even faster. Her body shivers away from his touch, overwhelmed and oversensitive, but he holds her against him, one arm around her shoulder, letting her ride it out as she mutters nonsense against his collar.

He places his other hand on her stomach, rubbing slow, soothing circles with his thumb.

Not sure why he keeps going, he keeps going; no, he has nothing to prove (this is not about that, he might not be as quick as Skye, but he understands) but he has this vague idea that he'd like to see her writhe under his touch. Soon he can feel it surging from the bottom of her stomach again

“What – _the fuck_ – are you doing? _Coul_ – what.“

She draws his arm over her eyes, hiding her face. He grabs her elbow and uncovers her expression. Enough to almost make him _stop_. But instead it makes him pick up the rhythm. He bends to lick the sweat pooling down the hollow of her neck, the oversensitivity of her whole body like a tiny earthquake under his mouth.

It takes him a bit, but she comes again, and he is far from done with her. He waits just a heartbeat – the length of the spasm he feels inside her – before he starts moving his hand again, slower now, but reaching deeper, more easily.

She whimpers.

He doesn't pull out but he stops, kneading the heel of his hand to anchor her. He doesn't want to continue if she feels this is too much for her.

"Skye? Are you okay?"

"Yea- yes, yes, fine, go on" she says, voice so rough and heavy with trust and arousal Coulson feels, rather crudely, that his refractory period is not a problem anymore. He tries to think about it with humor, because it's a little pathetic, how much he wants this girl right now. It's so uncharacteristic of him, so inconvenient – he feels quite helpless, to be honest. Of course that has been the entire problem, not his bullshit about not liking girls Skye's age, feeling more at ease with older women. The problem is that Skye's want mirrors his too accurately for his own comfort.

He makes her come one last time, but a slow burn now, stroking her while he holds her hiding, folded shape under his chin, her soft cries muffled against the curve of his shoulder. He busies himself with brushing locks of damp hair off her face. Skye struggles to even her breathing, at least even it enough so that it doesn't seem like the mere action of breathing is hurting her.

He can't be expected to help the smirk creeping on his face when he takes a long look at her body, flushed pink and vibrating contentedly. He thinks she looks gorgeous, and the word takes him by surprise – she is gorgeous, of course, he just hadn't thought about it in those terms. His attraction to Skye has always been, mainly, because _she is Skye_ , and not because of any objective characteristic of her features. There have been many things stopping his thinking about her in those terms.

She looks happy right now and _happy_ , on her, is uncomplicatedly exciting.

"Good? Thoroughly enjoyed that?" he asks.

She attacks his mouth in reply.

"Three... _Three_. I'm gonna kill you, old man," she says, herself smirking against his teeth.

Of that Coulson has no doubts, welcomes such fate with resignation. He sinks into her smiling kiss, accepting he has no idea what he's doing. Accepting that it doesn't bother him as much as it should.

It really _doesn't bother him_ , and he is probably losing his mind, he thinks, because he finds himself smiling right along with Skye.

 

 

**3**

They try to keep it out of the Bus; they try to mostly confine it inside four neutral walls like these (always the same, always completely different) and to the illusion that it doesn't have to affect their work.

Mostly they have managed so far. They've only slipped and done it in the plane a couple of times (twice in Skye's bunk, once in the back of the SUV – because apparently Coulson's office is off limits so far, which, okay, Skye is no idiot, she gets it). The problem is, that leaves them with an unusual pace in their hands; as long as they don't tell the rest of the team (and Skye has decided she'll have to instigate that conversation pretty soon, if he doesn't) all they have are these, their hotel nights, spread over weeks and weeks and never when it's convenient. Sometimes the have to store up their feelings for days, until here they are.

Here they are and Skye has Coulson in her grip, her fingers around his wrists. He has been pressing her to the mattress but now she's holding him up, turning both their bodies so she can be on top, flipping him onto his back and pinning him down. He is completely naked – well, they are both completely naked, but more importantly, _he is_ , which hasn't happened that often yet. She didn't expect it but Coulson is curiously guarded during sex; it's not that he is shy, Skye can't imagine a man like him ever being shy, she guesses whatever issue he has it has to do with the fact that he's with her. For some reason he doesn't want her to see him, not fully.

His fingers come up to her stomach, stroking her navel, then gently outlining the shape of her gunshot scar. She freezes for a moment, a split of a second where she feels a bit sick, remembering.

“Does it bother you when I do this?” he asks, stopping his hand until she says it's okay.

She shakes her head, leans into the touch to reassure him.

Mimicking his movement Skye drops one hand to his chest, her thumb following the dark pink path under which his heart was pierced. 

“And you? Does it bother you?”

“It doesn't bother me. With you, it doesn't.”

Hands to each other's scars, they look like a strange mirror right now.

She presses herself closer to his chest and moans quietly when Coulson kisses her throat. Then she brushes her fingertips across the scarred line of skin on his chest once more, while she doesn't stop kissing him, softer now, to make sure he was telling the truth and it doesn't bother him. With Coulson sometimes she has to check twice.

He grabs her hips and guides her against his cock. Skye puts her hands over his knuckles, pressing down so that she can guide herself as well. She likes his hands over her skin, splayed like they want to touch more of her than the breath of his fingers make possible. There are calloused bits all over, where Skye can guess at how many hours of target practice over how many years. She likes those bits – the imperfections, the solid and real and sometimes inconvenient imperfection of his body excites her. He holds her up with both hands until she's the one bearing down with intent and he's inside her.

She steadies herself with one hand against his chest and begins to rock slowly.

Coulson shudders when she clenches around him experimentally.

“Sorry,” she blushes. She loves it, this kind of communication between them, the newness, the discoveries. They are still clumsy with it, sometimes frustratingly so. But she likes it, because they are learning together, this is something theirs and theirs alone.

She rolls her hips. Coulson opens his mouth but no sound comes out.

“Slowly,” she commands, enjoying the humming of restrained energy between her legs, she can feel the muscles of his stomach in the effort of holding back. “Slowly.”

“Yes,” he breathes, looking up at her in honest concentration. He thrusts up, very intentionally, hitting the right spot.

“Like that, yes. Come on, Phil.”

She feels him tense under her.

She fixes him a curious, frowning look.

"What, you still don't like me to call you Phil? I know you're still my boss and all, but I had hoped –"

His hands come to rest on her back, he runs them up the length of her spine. The rhythm has almost halted but Skye can still feel them moving together, breathing together. He presses one palm between her shoulder blades, bringing her body closer to him.

He shakes his head.

"No. I wasn't thinking that. I was thinking I like it, actually. Again," he instructs her. His voice is raspy and thick.

He arches to pull her into a kiss.

" _Phil_ ," she says into his mouth.

The angle changes, not too much, just _enough_.

When she sits back up, breaking the kiss, Coulson grabs her hips, moves her to his rhythm. Skye likes when he sometimes takes control like this, not in a bossy way (though she suspects she'd like that too, makes a mental note to suggest it down the road) but in a reassuring, _I-got-you_ way. She has never felt safer than when in Coulson's hands. She knows he doesn't feel the same way around her and she wishes there was something she could do to make him understand she's not going to hurt him like he thinks she will.

She brings his hands to her breasts, trying to focus on the little sensations, not just the overwhelming _want want want_ of the moment, trying to focus on his damp palms against her nipples, his thighs settled comfortably against her backside, her own heartbeat pulsating around him as if it couldn't be translated but by his body. In this position she comes easily, and deeply, enjoying the fact that he watches her face the whole time. He can't help but jerk his hips at her aftershocks and soon it's over for Coulson too, all that's left of the moment is his hot, wet breath against the side of her neck and her name, like an apology or a dirty word, on his lips.

Minutes later her cheek is pressed against his shoulder, covered in sweat, and she is so content; it might be the endorphins talking, probably, but she just feels so satisfied with it, the whole scene. It feels weird to be this comfortable with it, because this is still Coulson, he's always Coulson, even in bed. Specially in bed. He's much more Coulson in bed than anywhere else.

“That was... something,” she says, feeling like she could laugh. “Something of which I'd like to have more, please. More of _everything_ really.”

She watches as his boneless post-orgasm limbs stiffen, starting with the shoulders.

“Do you want to talk about this now?” he asks her, propping himself up on one elbow. “About what you want?”

“Because I just said –? I didn't mean... Obviously I _meant_ it. I just didn't. Mean. To say it like that. If it's only going to bother you.”

He offers her a calm half-grin. "We've never really talked about this."

"We haven't. But we've been too busy... well, doing this."

He nods. It's been hard, finding a moment of privacy in the Bus to explore the more ordinary aspects of this arrangement. And whenever they have a stopover and they get to be alone, it's always mostly like this, the rush and the mess of it. They have quiet bits too (they order room service, they watch tv, they talk until it's light outside, all of which Skye is finding surprisingly satisfying) but they haven't defined anything yet, not really. They have been too caught up in... being caught up in each other.

Coulson touches his elbow. "I hope you know I'm not as irresponsible as to just have an affair _with you_."

Skye doesn't mean to just beam at that, but she does.

“I knew that,” she tells him. Affair is too small a word for something so big. “I assumed you wanted this to be more like – like a relationship? Is this a relationship? I mean, it'd be cool, it'd be kind of convenient because – you see, I'm sort of, okay pretty much, in love. With you."

She watches him freeze.

“You...” He starts and Skye just quietly panics.

"Hey, no, don't make that face. I didn't say it so you'd feel obliged to, um, say it back. That's not what this is about."

"It's not that I don't." She knows what a struggle it must have been for him, right in this moment, just those words.

"No, _I know_. I think I know you well enough to realize that. You just need time."

He nods, pushing his thumb into the hollow below her collarbone. He pulls her into his arms. And honestly she's amazed he's still naked, normally he would have already pulled on his boxers again, or hidden in the bathroom to get himself cleaned up before going to sleep. She doesn't tell him but it makes her feel a bit self-conscious about her own body; Coulson might _think_ he's not her type, but Skye knows she's not his. It's getting better lately, the beginning of some sort of familiarity pushing in, in a good way, she can feel him trusting her more and more each time.

She knows she's right: he just needs time.

He grabs the comforter, wraps it around her shoulders, holding Skye tight against his chest. She runs her hands along his sides. Coulson places one soft kiss on the top of her head. That's nice, she thinks, feeling all girly and content and _lucky_. He's a lot of work, then again she is, too, but she chooses to believe it might be worth it.

“Wait?” he asks, and it could mean anything, but Skye knows exactly what it means.

She nods, _not a problem, sir_ , she knows she's not going anywhere.

 

 

**4**

He knows he'll have to wait a bit longer now, pacing around the room, listening as the hotel noises die down when everyone around him goes to sleep.

He left Skye in the very capable hands of Jemma, hands which had been taking care of Skye's myriad of little cuts and bruises, all over her face and arms, when Coulson left for the hotel. All the medical attention he needed was an ice pack on his strained shoulder. Skye had thrown him a glance as he walked out, one that said _later_ and said _your room_ and _wait for me_. Of course he would have wanted to stay with Skye while they were patching her up, but he would only get in Simmons' way, there was nothing he could do. He hasn't lost the ability to be practical, not entirely.

It's hours later when he hears the familiar, overly-enthusiastic knock on his door. Her slight (and worn out) body sidles into the room as soon as Coulson opens.

“Sorry, I'm late. Doctor Simmons prescribed two shots of tequila with her in the hotel bar, as extended treatment. I couldn't say no. I'm sorry if I worried you.”

He stops her from coming further in, steadies her by the door with one hand on her waist. He studies the state of her. There's a shallow cut on her left eyebrow, and an ugly bruise was beginning to take shape under her cheekbone. She looks alert but tired.

He holds up her hand to the light, the metal splint immobilizing her two fractured fingers.

"Oh, yeah, that hurt," she says, chuckling awkwardly. 

Something ugly and _new_ twists in his stomach when he sees the bruises.

He grabs her waist and then he's shoving Skye against the wall, pinning her against it with his chest.

And well, she's quick to understand. Coulson is slightly annoyed that she's left him nowhere to hide, nowhere but her.

“It's okay, it's okay,” she says. “I was worried too.”

He grabs her forearms in a tight grip, stops her hands from finding him.

“ _Were you_?” he snaps at her.

Skye's gaze hardens.

“I thought I was going to _die_.”

Coulson remembers the world becoming shattered glass. His team ridiculously outnumbered. Blood stains on the pavement. He finds it hard to believe they came on top, and nobody was badly injured. He finds hard to believe Skye's broken fingers.

Lust comes over him in a manner that feels much like anger, like emptiness. He feels like there's not enough of him to fill up his body, like he needs to fill it with something else.

His hands fly to her head, holding her against the wall. He pulls on her hair, not painful, just enough that it's an unusual gesture.

" _Just_. Don't leave me," he says, breathless, not knowing what the fuck that means.

“Sir...?”

There's the lingering taste of alcohol when he closes his mouth over hers. After some hesitation (he can't blame her) Skye wraps her arms around his neck. He grinds his erection against her, swallowing the sounds she makes. He turns her around, wrenching her left hand behind her back. He grabs her hips, dragging her across the room, pushing her onto the bed.

He struggles with her jeans, a frustrated groan as his fingers can't get the job done, a sound sharper than it should have been, more desperate.

“Let me...” Skye offers, helpful but kind of wary.

With just one hand she manages to undo the buttons and slip the jeans below her hips. Coulson does the rest, pulling at the clothes in a hurry, yanking her underwear awkwardly. There's a black-and-blue mark on her left knee. He remembers her dropping to the ground. He stares at it.

“You sure you're okay?” she asks, one gentle hand twisted in his hair.

He doesn't reply; instead he climbs over her and kisses her, full of hunger and fear.

This is not desire; desire for her he understands, has stopped letting it bother him. This is need, and Coulson is not comfortable with that notion, _need_ , need like blisters on his skin. He doesn't want to beg her, doesn't even want to ask, but he needs this.

“Please...?”

Skye blinks. “Yes. Of course. _Here_.”

She rests her hand on the small of his back and presses down slightly, half guiding half giving permission. She draws a hissed breath when he pushes into her, a little too early, a little too fast, _too much_. But then she arches towards him, bunching her hands into fists around his shirt, twisting them, kissing Coulson.

He's unusually impatient, and he thrusts into her in a quick, hard pace, wrapping his fingers around her knees to lift her legs above his shoulders. She only closes her eyes once or twice, hands balled into the pillow, clenching when he pushes. Otherwise she looks right up at him, and it's _horrible_ , her eyes are horrible, full of love and trust, and when she sobs out his name Coulson is not sure which version of it she's using.

Vaguely – as vaguely as these sharp, piercing moments allow him – he thinks about asking her again, not to leave him, but he knows it'd be a moot point with Skye, she would only look at him like he is such a fool. So he kisses her again, all teeth and the aftertaste of ashes.

He is aware he's going too fast – he doesn't know how she's even going to get any pleasure from this, but then he hears her make a struggling sound and he _knows_ , he knows these things now. What does it mean that she is right there, where he is, that she matches him step by step, what does it mean that she matches his need with her own?

The orgasm, when it comes (and it's too soon, and way too late), feels ripped out of him rather than something he's had a part in. He's still kissing her, he goes on kissing her for (what it feels like) a long time.

Afterwards he sits up in bed, running his hands through his hair, a bit confused about what comes next. His shoulder feels painfully sore from the effort – he can only imagine how Skye must be feeling, and he does, imagine it, and he feels a bit sick, he doesn't ever want to have to look at the bruises on her body.

“Okay. That was intense,” she says behind him, humor in her voice but also the awareness of how different Coulson has been with her tonight, she touches her fingertips to the small of his back. “Not complaining. Just a general comment.”

He's stripped down to his t-shirt and boxers, letting the rest of his clothes – stained by the day's blood and smoke – fall to the ground. He rubs his eyes with the back of his hand. He feels exhausted. More drained than still empty.

“So much for not letting it interfere with our jobs,” he says between his teeth, not looking back at her.

“Actually, sir,” Skye points out. “I think in this case it's the other way around.”

She hugs him from behind, locking her hands over his chest. Coulson drops his gaze; the splint and her broken fingers sit awkwardly, carefully, on top of her uninjured hand. He touches the metal with ginger hands. Something warm and unexpected uncoils inside of him. Not really desire, but not void of it either. Not really the need to protect this girl, but that is also part of the whole.

"I'm sorry," he says, not sure about what. Knowing his apology is probably going to piss her off.

She shakes her head, he can feel it against his right shoulder. "I was scared, too. I understand. We both needed something like this."

As lies go, it's a good one, and at least he's hasn't pissed her off. She buries her hand in his hair, her palm flat, hot against the back of his neck.

"I..." he hesitates. He loves her. He knows that. It shouldn't be so difficult to say.

She spares him, like she gets it. She probably does. She always gets it, always gets him. Her nails scrape at his scalp, lightly, playfully.

"Shh. We're fine, boss, we're fine."

A rain of soft kisses on his shoulder, through his t-shirt.

He turns on his side to face her. Now her hands are on his shoulders. Her voice is so young and confident when she speaks again.

“I know you think I don't get it, because you think nothing ever affects me but... it does affect me. And I get it. Ours is a dangerous job. And I love it, I'm doing exactly what I want to do. I'm exactly where I want to be. But you know, I feel really lucky there's something that makes coming back in one piece worth it.” He stares at her. “ _You_ , dummy. I'm talking about you.”

He has no idea what to say to that. How the fuck does one reply to that?

“Come here,” he tells her.

They exchange positions. Skye fits snuggly against his chest, under his chin. Then she shifts, finding where's she's uncomfortable.

“Help with this?” She's trying to get rid of her bra, pulling under her t-shirt. But she only has one functional hand at the moment so he watches her struggle. He helps her, slipping his hands under her clothes and unhooking the clasps in one swift movement. She can do the rest now, but she sighs, grateful, at his help. “You're great with bras. Don't they ever tell you that?”

“All the time,” he says. It doesn't fall flat, so he considers it a win.

Comfortable now Skye rocks her body against him once more, drawing her knees against her chest.

He takes her hands in his, mindful of her injury.

“Did I hurt you?”

“No. You were very careful.”

“It didn't feel like I was being careful.” He doesn't just mean tonight, or not only tonight, but in general. In _this_.

She looks up, her nose brushing his chin.

Skye extricates her hands from his grip, only to turn the tables; she holds up his hands, palm pressed to palm, the lifts them to her face. She kisses the curve of his wrist, mouth gentle against the insinuated bones, the soft layer of hair.

“My careful, careful man,” she sighs more than says.

Coulson knows she is right. Not in a possessive way. He is hers. It feels comforting to him, actually.

Skye stirs happily in his lap: “Wait. Is that a smile I notice behind me?”

“I might just be glad to see you,” he teases, amazed that they can go back and forth through these emotions so effortlessly.

She laughs, gives his forearm a little playful bite.

She tells him: “Welcome back.”

 

 

**5**

Skye likes sex in the mornings.

She didn't know that about herself before Coulson.

She's even getting the hang of sleeping naked; she never did that before, between sharing a room with a bunch of girls in the orphanage and sleeping in her van for two years. But here it's safe and warm and clean (so clean) and sometimes after having sex she just collapses against Coulson's back and slips into a dreamless slumber. Only to find herself in the morning, without clothes, limbs unselfconsciously entangled with Coulson's, though he apparently had enough sense to put on his underwear and t-shirt before falling asleep.

And since Coulson is physically incapable of oversleeping, when he stirs, at sunrise, Skye is woken as well, and they have at least a couple of hours to fool around before they are due back in reception. And they normally make good use of the time, unless they are too sore and spent from a mission, or maybe if the night before has been particularly intense. Then they are content with just lazing around the room and eating breakfast properly and kissing a lot. _A lot_.

That's nice, but Skye really likes it when they fuck in the morning. When their bodies are heavy with sleep so each movement is slow and thoroughly felt, like the world has gone slow-motion. Without the urgency of the nights they spend together, mornings seem to be dedicated to the small details. She enjoys seeing him heavy-lidded and loose-limbed, yawning like a normal person, she had no idea he could yawn, before they started sleeping together; she enjoys when he lets her explore his body, nuzzling his hipbone and caressing the sensitive skin of his belly. This is also why she likes it: because when they are sort of sleepy, when it's languid, Coulson drops his defenses a lot more easily. It's not that he is shy, or that he doesn't trust her. But he's wired for concealment and detachment. And that's kind of hard to re-learn. Skye is finding him out little by little. He lets her, grumpily at times, but she has the feeling he actually wants to be found out by her, uncovered, remade. Sometimes the remaking is excruciating, sometimes it's joyful, under sunlight and bad morning breath.

Some mornings Coulson even lets her do something uncharacteristically intimate to him, like tying his tie for him, which Skye finds ridiculously hot for no real good reason.

This morning she wakes up to his hand on her back, heavy and warm and solid. She doesn't know what time it is, but it's early.

Suddenly she remembers she doesn't have to play the charade of going back to her empty hotel room today. Yesterday they decided they'd be booking just one room from now on, stop the pretenses. They haven't told the team just yet and if this is the way they find out, then so be it.

Then so be it, those had been Coulson's words.

The idea jolts her awake.

“You're tense,” he says behind her.

He makes her lie on her stomach while he presses his hand against the sore muscles, and Skye feels instant release of tension in the area.

“You can give massages?”

“Of course I can give massages,” he says. “Who do you take me for?”

“Wow. Is there anything you're not an expert at, Mr Expert At Everything? I can do stuff, too.”

“Of course you can.” He moves his hand to squeeze her shoulder, meeting resistance there. “You're nervous. Why are you nervous, Skye?”

“I don't know.”

And okay, she can't see him, but she swears she can hear him frown.

“Is it this about booking just one room?”

“No. Well, _yes_.”

“Do you regret it?”

“I don't. But...?”

“But?”

It's hard to concentrate on the question when Coulson has his hands all over her back, feeling each muscle and relieving the tension along the ridge of her spine.

“What if they find out, like, immediately? Now there are official records of this, we've left a paper trail. What if we go downstairs and they're there and notice I don't have to check out. And what if Simmons asks me on what floor my room was or, or–?”

“You're a good liar,” he replies. “You lie. Or you don't, if you don't want to. Tell her. It's your call.”

She doesn't like how he's being Mr Suave here, when he's normally the one with the list of complains. It's not that Skye cares what other people think; it's just that she likes what she has here with Coulson so far (it's not perfect, she wants _more_ , eventually, more than hotel rooms and weeks of holding out in between) and is afraid to disturb the delicate possibilities it holds.

“Our team, they are good people, I know. But this, this is kind of complicated to understand,” she says, and hears the agreeing noise he makes at the back of his throat. “I just don't want them to say things to you, things that could make you think – don't want you to get weird.”

“That's not going to happen, I promise.”

He presses his thumb to her nape, working slowly until the knots of muscle begin to loosen.

“I don't want you to be uncomfortable about us.”

“Right now I'm _very_ comfortable,” he says in a low voice behind her ear. Sure, _he_ can make that sort of thing sound sexy.

“What if I get you into trouble? For breaking the rules?”

“Skye, I work for an organization that poisoned my blood with alien dna and manipulated my memories without my consent. It'd be pretty rich of them to demand my strict adherence to the rules.”

“Fair.”

“But it's nice to see you play devil's advocate for once,” he tells her. “So that it doesn't seem like you jumped into bed with me without a second thought.”

“No, I totally did that,” she says, feeling his good humor in the way his fingers move across her back. “Told you, I am pretty impulsive when it comes to you.”

“Turn over.”

She does. Now they're face to face, so very close on the pillow. He gives her shoulder a little squeeze.

“Better?” he asks.

“More relaxed.”

“Good,” he says, stretching out to kiss her.

They give each other long, shallow morning kisses. Skye likes to bite his lower lip slightly and then run her tongue along the tender bits, repeat the process ad infinitum. They kiss with increasing sloppiness, like a competition to see who could slow down the world the most.

She slips her fingers under the waistband of his boxers. He's already half hard.

“And good morning to you, too,” she says, smiling against his cheek.

He makes a sound between a chuckle and a groan.

“Skye.”

“Just a quick one,” she says, lips to the corner of his mouth. She is not above begging and she knows it. And he knows it, too.

Coulson pulls away, teasing kisses all over her neck, her chest and stomach. Skye can feel his smirk pressed to her hip, as his hands cup the undersides of her thighs. She drops her hand, sliding her firm fingers in his hair and directing him further down.

He goes slow, tongue in small, lazy circles. Mornings mean he takes his time tasting her, easing into her heat. Her hand, still threaded into his hair, tightening when he finally pushes in deep.

From time to time he comes up, for air and to look at her face, leaving a trail of ghost kisses on the inside of her thigh. They lock eyes for a moment, the sunlight through the blinds kind of annoying but also revealing, which is a good thing, Skye thinks. They listen to each other breathe as the sounds of the hotel waking up (cleaning, kitchen in motion, dumb waiters up and down) hum around them, join their wordless conversation. Then Coulson goes back to burying himself between her legs, stroking the back of her knee with one absent hand.

There's always this moment, right before he makes her come, when Skye finds herself reflecting on the surrealism of the situation. She had never imagined herself here, and she's aware she's not the kind of person Coulson had planned to end up with. For all his reassurances (for all her own stubbornness, which she realizes is what has kept this relationship going more than once) Skye knows it must look strange from the outside. But then she remembers: they are strange people. They are not like other people. He has been dead – he had to come back to life before he could find her. And she is an 084, and whatever that means she's sure _normal_ it is not. Whatever that means she's sure Coulson will walk that path with her. And that's it, she needs nothing else for herself. From outside they might not be a perfect fit but Skye doesn't want perfect. She wants Coulson.

And she has him. For this morning at least, she does. And so she comes, hard and early-morning-slow, under his mouth.

When the room stops spinning and the light stops stinging her eyes she raises one eyebrow at him. “ _You_. Here.”

He complies, sliding up the bed until Skye's hands find him again. It doesn't take long, two or three long strokes of her fingers and Coulson is trembling against her neck. She wipes her hand on the bedsheets, thinking about the advantages of hotel rooms, grossing herself out a bit. Coulson's ragged breathing is soothing, so near her face, hot and wondrous, and she feels herself almost drift into sleep again.

But then she feels the bed lift under her and when she opens one eye to see what's going on Coulson is already on his feet.

“I'm going to take a shower,” he announces.

“Good idea,” Skye mutters, closing her eyes again and hugging the pillow against her chest. 

Then he feels Coulson grabbing her wrist and tugging at her gently but resolved.

“And you're coming with me.”

Skye's eyes shot open immediately. “Yeah, no, that's _much better_.”

 

 

**6**

Her knock on his door is softer tonight.

"I didn't know if the Do Not Disturb sign included me," she starts, shrugging.

Coulson is not going to lie: "Tonight it probably includes you."

She comes in anyway. He draws a weary breath.

"That's okay. I can be _almost_ not here. You won't notice me."

"I'm not exactly good company right now."

"That line totally makes me want to leave you on your own," she says, concern staining her voice.

She was worried already, before that. The way he left the Bus after what happened, not talking to anyone on his way to the hotel. To be fair Skye wasn't the only one worried about him tonight, which is why the rest of the team let her be the one to go after Coulson. That's a lesson they have learned already, no matter their personal opinions on the relationship.

Coulson finally lets her in, properly, into the room, throwing his hands in the air for a moment. He goes back to sitting on the bed, back against the headboard, staring at the tv screen on mute.

“Mind if I sit with you?”

“You're going to, anyway.”

“Probably.”

They sit over the covers. She leaves room between them, painfully aware that Coulson doesn't want to be pushed just yet. She can wait.

For such an impatient person, Coulson thinks as he feels Skye's eyes dart gently over his profile, she is very good at waiting for him.

They stay like that for a beat or two. Skye understands it, she's taking it hard, too. Being so close to finally drop the curtain on the whole Clairvoyant business and then, _nothing_. Seeing him slip through their fingers. She gets it, why the defeat stings a lot more in this case, and the way he poisoned their minds in the process. She knows she should probably leave Coulson alone, except she's not sure he wants that, but she'll take his word for it and if he asks her again she _will_ leave.

"Today was just screwed up. Okay? That guy was messing with our heads, all of our heads. You can't let it get to you. The things he said about me, too, about where I come from..."

He says nothing.

“Okay, don't talk to me if you don't want. But I'm not going anywhere unless I hear you _say it_. I hope you know that.”

"What is that you want, Skye?"

He feels only half-guilty about the sharp tone, even as he sees how Skye shrugs it away – people would think this kind of stuff doesn't even touch her, but Coulson knows better. Some days he wishes he didn't.

"I'm a pretty simple girl, A.C. I just want you to tell me what's wrong and then I want us to make out until you feel better."

He sighs again, nodding slightly.

She tries moving closer to him on the bed. He doesn't acknowledge it, which means it's probably okay so far. He's not looking at her.

"Is this about what the Clairvoyant said about your father? Because I know you don't ever talk about your folks and it's okay, you don't have to tell me, I know I have no right to expect –"

And that's it. That does it, for Coulson. Does Skye really feel she has no right to expect to be included in his life? Is this the way he's been treating her all this time? Is that really what she thinks? And if this is just a Skye thing, one of her thousand surprising little insecurities, one the scars of years and years of neglect in her childhood... Why hasn't he been able to reassure her? Why hasn't he explained to her, in no uncertain terms, that she's welcome to all of it, his past, his worries and wishes, _all_?

“It surprised me, that is all,” he tells her, softening his voice. Then tries a little bit harder. “I don't like thinking about my father.”

“Were you young when you lost him?”

“Too young.” But Skye's big, sad eyes could make him spill anything. “I don't really know if I remember him, or I remember only the stories I've been told.”

Skye fears this is the wrong move but: “How did he die?”

“He was a contractor for the military. Some kind of training accident, I think. Or at least that's what they told my mother. We never really...”

She shifts where she's sitting, cross-legged and staring at him too intensely. Coulson wishes she would just reach out and – 

He avoids her eyes when he's not talking. Skye doesn't want to be hearing about this anymore than he wants to be telling her, she doesn't want to think about the sadness in his life, she wishes he would just let her reach out and – 

"You never investigated it?" she asks.

"No. I guess I didn't really want to find out."

"Yeah, I can understand that."

"No, but you wouldn't," he says, touching his fingers to her collarbone. "You're so much braver than that."

He moves into her side of the bed, pressing his lips to hers for a moment.

She traces his nose with her thumb, stopping at the bridge, grazing his eyebrows with a light, fond touch. She loves that bit of his face so much, the deep vertical lines of his brow. She hooks her fingers under the knot of his tie, loosening it as well as pulling him towards her. 

Well, he _was_ promised make-outs, he's not about to protest in regards to her thorough exploration of his mouth. Because it actually is making him feel better. She presses her hands against his chest while she kisses him, and he keeps them there, under his. He loves her hands, loves her fingers, the way they slide against his body without doubt, the stories behind rings and bracelets, stories Skye has told him, in rooms like this one, he loves knowing that about her.

They do this for a while, until she feels Coulson settle, let go of whatever had him in its grip. She doesn't take it further, mostly the opposite; the pace winds down until there are long pauses between kisses, long breaths, Coulson's shy smile, the sadness almost gone from his eyes. Skye pulls away, feeling this is as far as they go tonight.

He lets her stop, or rather she lets him, that was always the idea. He can't give her more tonight, just this, just the company and the acceptance of her way of comforting her. He sits back against the headboard, comfortable for the first time in many hours, hand resting on her knee.

They stand like that, shoulder to shoulder, during one awkward moment. Then Skye has an idea.

“ _Three Days of the Condor_ is on tv,” she tells him. “I know how much you enjoy 70s conspiracy thrillers.”

She knows a lot about him, as it happens, she realizes: he likes 70s thrillers and 40s big band music. And he likes her.

He watches as Skye goes to the mini-bar, takes a couple of tiny bottles of bourbon for them. She walks with a little grin on her face, like she's thinking about something happy. They sit close on the bed (not closer than they were, keeping the touching light, not too close, Skye is still letting him breathe) and she struggles with the remote for a minute until she finds the channel she was looking for.

She dims the lights, thinking better, more moody, and Coulson looks spent, she wants to get him to sleep as soon as possible.

“Better?” she asks after some minutes, when they are both concentrated on the film and nothing else, except perhaps being with each other.

There's a beat, then, as if it was being pried from him, Coulson smiles. “I think so. Thank you.”

They just watch the movie. Coulson doesn't really mind when eventually she snuggles up against him, her knee pressed to his thigh, one arm around his waist. He feels the need to apologize for the Do Not Disturb sign, for treating her like she was anyone else.

“Skye...”

“What?”

This time it's probably the easiest thing he's done in his life: “You should already know this but. I love you.”

No surprises there, she thinks. But if he needed to say it. She nudges him with her elbow.

“Yeah, okay, don't worry about it, Phil, just watch the movie.”

That startles a chuckle out of him. He smiles, leaning over to kiss her cheek. After a moment he settles against her arm, his head resting quietly on her shoulder, her arm now around his shoulder, fingers stroking the upper-side of his arm. It surprises him, how comfortable it is. He watches the film (he's seen it a couple of times already) and sometimes he watches Skye's face in the half-darkness, the tv screen flickering on her skin.

Predictably, some time afterwards, when the film is only halfway done, Coulson falls asleep on her. Skye smiles at that, indulging herself and taking a brief look at his sleeping face. He looks so unguarded, resting his head on her lap, the warmth of his even breath against her knee, his clothes in disarray. She wants to poke his face, like a child, but she thinks better of it, it's much more satisfying to stroke his hair and listen to the little content sighs that escape from him. Skye lets him be for a while, enjoying the weight of him, but then she thinks he might be more comfortable properly put to bed.

She coaxes him in his sleep to slide down the bed, so that he won't wake up with a cramped neck and back. She even manages to get rid of the tie – but that's as much as she can do for him without waking him. She finds a blanket on the cupboard and throws it over him, carefully. Coulson unconsciously leans into the warmth of the fabric and Skye's hands. She smiles.

She goes back to lying in bed, closer to his sleeping body now, she finishes watching the movie with the comforting noise of Coulson's tranquil breathing against her shoulder.

Sometime (and a dozen infomercials) later she falls asleep as well, one small hand tangled into the fabric of his shirt, right above his heart.


End file.
